


Allons-y

by LuciFern



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 23:04:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3336104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuciFern/pseuds/LuciFern
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Series of drabbles. She's just a shop girl, completely average. Or, she was, until he told her to run. The blond man with the strange stick turns her life upside down with a single word.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Run

_Run, verb.  To move with haste, to hurry._

She was just a shop girl, nothing special.  Had never been anything special, just typically outcast at school save for her two best friends.  Her looks were average, her natural dentistry typical and enhanced with years of retainer use, her hair a boring shade of brown, her… well, you get the idea.

She lived in an average house, saving up for university because while she exceeded at academics, she never did quite exceed in paperwork, and had missed out on grants and scholarships, and split duties with her parents.  She had a typical love life with one of her best friends seeking her affections.  An average life, with average prospects.

She hated average.  She loved Ron, she really did, but she didn’t love him in the way that he deserved ( _that she deserved_ ).  She didn’t love him through everything, like Ginny loved Harry.  She didn’t love him regardless of how similar to his brother he was, nor how dissimilar to himself that he’d become following Fred’s death in Afghanistan, like Angelina loved George.  She didn’t love how he’d lived up to his potential after a rather unremarkable start, like Hannah love Neville.  She didn’t love that she’d found her perfect complement, the one who never belittled her beliefs, only sought to understand them, like Luna loved Rolf.  Simply put, she didn’t love him the right way.

Though she’d never tell them, she loved to watch the people around her, those in her shop and those walking by on the street.  She liked to make up lives for them, fantastical adventures they went on, loves had and loves lost.  She liked to imagine those lives for herself, but nothing would ever, _could_ ever live up to what she was doing now.

Running down the street, being dragged by a mysterious stranger who she’d caught shooting coloured bolts of light from a thin stick in his hand, aiming at the mannequins of all things, she couldn’t resist the grin that wanted to break out across her face.  If her friends could see her now, they’d hardly recognize her.  True, she still wore her sensible work clothes, with the sensible low pumps, but gone was the sensible hairstyle, the sensible look of polite disinterest.  Her hair was a wild nest of tangled curls, her eyes alit in a way not seen since she’d first discovered the public library.

She didn’t stop grinning, even as the blond man dragged her into a pub that hadn’t been there a moment before, through the dimly lit room, and into the fireplace, where he then threw green dust and called out “Flamel Heights.”  She didn’t stop grinning as he turned to her, as if realizing she was still there, twirling that strange stick between his fingers, grinning just as big.

That was the start of her _own_ fantastical adventure, and she would never look back.


	2. Rivet

_Rivet, verb. To focus, to zero in on._

"Focus! You're never going to get this if you keep daydreaming!"

"Well, excuse me! It's hardly my fault that everywhere we go, you insist on pointing out every minute detail while expecting me to remember something you never told me in the first place!"

It was a typical, albeit a  _new_  type of typical, day for her. The blond standing in front of her being infuriated that she doesn't know his every thought, and her infuriated that he can't speak plainly.

"Hermione, this is serious. You need to focus on the actions and the words, not just what the spell does. Like this," he waved his stick before tapping the air with it, " _wingardium leviosa_." The feather on the table between them began to float gently.

She scoffed. "Of course it works for you, you've been doing this for years! I didn't even know this was possible until you dragged me off from my work."

His frown was directed at her pout as much as it was her words. He hadn't told her, but he'd spent quite some time watching her before getting showy, and he'd quickly formed the opinion that she needed to smile more. Not the fake, thin one he'd seen her give her customers, nor even the real but sad one she gave her friends. Especially not the pitying one she'd given the ginger bloke sending cow eyes her way. She needed a full grin, like she'd had when he first brought her back to his flat; the one full of life and excitement. The one he hadn't seen since she got over her shock at his collection of books.

He especially didn't like it when she complained as though she were unwilling to be here, learning what she never could have known was real. He'd recognized the longing for  _more_  the first time he'd laid eyes on her, sent from his job to investigate strange happenings in Muggle London. Why her magic hadn't made itself known earlier was a mystery he was still working on uncovering, but there was no denying that she was the source. It wasn't unheard of, per se, to have a witch or wizard born to Muggle parents, but it was hardly common. His job with the Ministry was to investigate and inform in those rare occasions, though he mostly returned empty handed. The majority of such potential incidents were the result of bored magical folk rather than an unclaimed novice, so when he'd found the genuine article, he'd wasted no time in bringing her to his world.

He simply hadn't expected it to be so difficult to get her to intentionally show her power.

So lost in thought was he, that he didn't notice at first when she'd sighed and used his wand again, an intense look of concentration on her face. He didn't notice how the expectant sorrow turned to wonder and glee. He didn't notice her calling him to look, nor the mischievous glint in her eye when she found  _him_  distracted for once.

He did notice though when the feather quite suddenly brushed below his ear, and he hit his shin on the table in surprise. Her laughter could be heard across the street as the usually unflappable Draco Malfoy blasted the feather to dust for the affront to his reputation.


	3. Rapture

_Rapture, noun. An intense feeling of happiness._

After the first time, it was relatively easy to gain the necessary skills to demonstrate her right to know about magic. Just three months since she first met the blond stranger, she was fully aware of just why he'd been to her shop in the first place. When she first learned that she'd been animating the mannequins, she'd not believed him, but three months of being cooped up in his flat and seeing just what happened when she was angry or tired or stressed or – one rather memorable time – happy, she couldn't deny that she could do quite impressive things without meaning to.

She was still living high off of her success as he moved her through the street she'd glimpsed through the windows. She smiled and responded to the greetings of Madam Malkin, the tailor Draco had enlisted to help her dress properly when she'd first arrived. He had to practically drag her away from the windows of Flourish and Blott's, where she heard the siren's song of books unread, though she missed the perturbed expressions of passers-by at the sight of an infamous Malfoy grinning amusedly at her ardour for the written word. She could only stare apprehensively, though, when he pushed her through the dingy door and into the dusty shop he assured her was, "the best place to get a wand."

Ollivander's was, in Hermione's opinion, more than a little off-putting. The high shelves, stacked with nearly identical boxes with nearly identical unreadable labels was a let-down, but she put her faith in her companion's word; he hadn't been wrong, yet, much to her chagrin, so odds were he was correct this time, as well. The hunched old man that came to greet them was the first part of this whole experience that she was able to imagine correctly, though to be fair, she'd made the assumption of what the proprietor would look like based on the surroundings. He was tall but stooped, hair thin and falling limply around his shoulders, and his entire appearance was just as dusty as the shop around them. And then he spoke, and she had to remind herself not to make assumptions.

"Draco Malfoy, unless I'm mistaken, you still have a wand and have no need of my services." The old man's voice was strong and entirely unwelcoming.

She had asked, here and there, about his family when they took breaks from her lessons, and while she clearly understood that he was from money, he'd never once led her to believe that he was disliked. This man, however, clearly held no fondness for her companion, and the way he'd spat out Malfoy clearly hinted that whether the dislike was personal or not, it certainly went beyond that.

Draco, for his part, remained polite, though the tightness around his mouth gave proof of his discomfort. "And you would be correct, as always in matters of wands, Mr Ollivander. I'm here to help this young lady find the wand for her."

The full force of the older man's gaze weighed heavily on her shoulders, the flush of excitement having worn off and been replaced with trepidation. Her nerves only heightened when he pulled his own wand and inspected her hand. "Name?"

"Oh, er, Hermione, sir. Hermione Granger."

"Granger, Granger… I'm not familiar with the family." He sent a cold glare at Draco, as though he were somehow at fault for the lack of knowledge.

Hermione looked to Draco as well, more than a little out of her depth, now, but Draco never took his eyes off the old man still clutching her hand. "Mr Ollivander, more than being the best of the best when it comes to anything wand related, never forgets a person, nor the wand that chooses them." His eyes flicked up to hers, briefly, and at the least she understood that much now. "You don't know the family, because she's Muggle-born."


	4. Reel

_Reel, verb. To vacillate, to waver, to be uncertain._

She sat on his sofa, staring at the length of vine wood between her hands. Ten and three quarter inch, with a dragon heartstring core, she'd been told. It was beautiful, fit perfectly in her hand, and when she'd first held it, had prompted the completely inappropriate thought, " _At last, my arm is complete!_ " She had to stifle a giggle as the words wove their way back through her mind, because it was – inappropriate, that is.

She had learned over the previous months that this stick currently balanced on her palm could do great things. Great, and terrible, things. She shouldn't be comparing herself to a psychopathic murderer bent on revenge using a straight razor while holding her wand. She had, for a moment, though, nearly shared her joke with Draco, not that she believed he would understand it.

Draco, who had been sitting at the window for the better part of three hours. Draco, who had remained silent after paying the wand maker for her tool of witchcraft. Draco, who seemed to have forgotten she was there at all, so lost in his melancholy was he.

The wand maker had straightened a bit at the reveal of her origins, looking at the both of them with a strange awe, and no small amount of pride when he settled his eyes on the blond man. She didn't think Draco had seen it, as he'd averted his own eyes after making the declaration. He'd stepped away, his back turned as he stared out toward the street, though his eyes were unseeing more from an internal battle than the clouded glass dimly letting light through.

She knew from her lessons with Draco that being completely of a non-magical background was unusual in the extreme for their kind. Most, he had told her, had at least one magical parent, with the vast majority having at least one Muggle – that is, non-magical, he'd said – ancestor in the most recent three generations. The magical community was small, and it wasn't unheard of for some, like the Malfoys, to be related to every magical family of more than six generations. The Malfoy family was unique in its breeding, much like the Court of the Queen in its pedigree. His mother, Draco had said, was the last of the only other family to not recognize non-magical partners. Once, there'd been many, as recently as the turn of the century, but things happened and times changed, or so he said.

A foolish part of her wailed at the information, because he'd as good as told her that she wasn't good enough for the handsome formerly-stranger, and she was still a romantic at heart. She needed to be practical about this, though, because really, he'd just been doing his job in getting her, teaching her. Certainly, he'd been more than kind in offering her his spare room to stay in while they worked on getting her registered, but that's all it was: duty and kindness.

She swallowed heavily, the thin, light piece of vine suddenly weighing her arms down. "Draco?" She winced, hoping he didn't notice the crack in her voice. He straightened, turning his head slightly to show he was listening without looking at her. "I think it's time I went home, now."


	5. Release

_Release, verb. To set free._

She smiled at her friends, laughing along with them at the stories of accidents and run-ins. She'd missed this, the weekly gatherings at the local pub or someone's home, full of people she'd known her entire life, people she didn't have to explain everything to. Full of tales from her own childhood, shared experiences, and the newest gossip from their classmates or anecdotes about their children.

They had been shocked, to say the least, when she'd shown up at Harry and Ginny's, bottle of wine in one hand and notebook in the other. Off doing research for a novel, she'd said, spur of the moment decision and one that she could never regret. They'd taken one look at the new light in her eyes, and nodded. She looked good, they said. They'd missed her, they said. Ron didn't know what to do with himself, they'd said.

She hid her cringe at the last, having put Ron firmly out of her mind while she'd been with Draco. She still loved him, still in a way he didn't deserve from the woman he'd had his heart set on for the better part of ten years. Still in a way that she didn't deserve for the man she'd resigned herself to live with. That was the problem, she knew; she'd  _resigned_ herself to be with him, knowing that even her new-found life didn't present her with the thing she wanted most, needed most from magic. But Ron was a good man, and a good friend. She could,  _would_  do this.

"Hey, 'Mione, you in there?" The man occupying her mind was suddenly occupying her vision, his blue eyes kind and red hair spiked like he'd taken to doing in lieu of cutting it as his mother wished.

"Yes, sorry, was just lost in thought for a moment. What were you saying?" She offered a small smile, one which he eagerly returned.

"I was just asking if you wanted me to walk you home?"

She blinked as she realized everyone was gathering their things and saying their goodbyes. "Yes, Ron, that would be lovely. Thank you."

She tucked her notebook in her bag, fingering her wand as she did so. She was welcome to enter the magical world at any time, and she'd already spent a few afternoons browsing the selection at Flourish and Blott's, but she hadn't seen  _him_  since he'd helped her back to her own flat and taken care of her back owed rent, offered a stilted congratulations and a cold nod. She hurried to bring her hand back out, lest she dwell too much; not even in a world of magic was she going to find a man better for her than Ronald Weasley, and she simply needed to accept that.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This was unashamedly inspired by the current run of Doctor Who. It started as a single drabble, but insisted on growing from there. I'm quite pleased with how it turned out, even if it  _did_  distract me from my work on my other work in progress.

_Return, verb. To go or come back, to revert. To reciprocate._

"So, goodnight, Ron. It was wonderful being back and seeing everyone again." Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, but his were rosy from more than that.

She braced herself as his lids lowered, as his head moved toward hers at the bottom of the steps to her building. She closed her eyes and her lips, planning on this kiss being as chaste as possible. Resigned to the future of them or no, she wanted to keep it slow. Fast would only hurt them both in the end, and she'd had enough of falling fast and being hurt.

"Granger, get up here before you get sick. I'm not nursing you back to health."

She inhaled a gasp as she swivelled to look at the door, her eyes confirming what her ears had told her. Ron's lips planted firmly on her cheek, not that she was paying attention to anything other than the grey eyes glaring down at them from the top step.

"Draco? What are you doing here? I thought-"

"It seems I forgot something when I dropped you off, I was hoping you'd seen it." His tone was casual, almost flirty, but his body was still angry. She didn't know why he was angry, nor why he was here; he'd not brought anything but the clothes on his back, his wallet, and his wand when he'd left her three weeks earlier, and she knew for a fact he hadn't left any of those behind. He'd not had the time to, turning and leaving as quickly as he had. And now she was getting angry.

Ron had noticed the familiar way the strange man talked with his Hermione, and didn't like it one bit. She'd finally acknowledged how great they would be together, and then this bloke decides to interrupt his goodnight kiss? All for something stupid he could have come at a more reasonable time for?

"Look, mate, it's late, too late to be coming to a bird's home and looking for something you misplaced. Why don't you-"

Again, the blond interrupted. "Hermione, are you going to come in and help me look or not?"

Her mind was made before she even registered what was happening. "Goodnight, Ron, I'll call you in the morning." Her feet moved before she could tell them to, climbing the stairs, oblivious to the incredulous look on her long-time friend's face or the smug dismissal the other man sent his way.

Up the stairs she went, turning on the landings and not noticing anything but the warm hand on her back propelling her forward. Key in the door, door open and shut behind them, she finally looked at her guest.

His eyes were shadowed, his hair mussed as though he'd been running his hands through it for days. His face was strained, his jaw tight, and he was still the most beautiful man she'd ever laid eyes on. "What did you forget, Draco?"

He stepped toward her and her throat tightened. He couldn't, he wouldn't… not tonight, when she'd finally agreed to give up! His gaze focused on her neck as she swallowed, and she knew that choosing to let go of her crush was very different from actually giving it up. And then he met her look for look, and she knew.

"It seems I left my heart. You wouldn't happen to have it, would you?"

And as his lips met hers, she couldn't help but thank whomever was looking out for her. It seemed she wasn't the only romantic at heart.


End file.
